Dead Stream Curse: A Northern Michigan Asylum Novel

by Erickson, J. R.

  Groggily, he ran to his bag and ripped the satchel from within.

  Misty followed him, barking.

  Mack hurled the pouch into the darkened bedroom.

  Running forward, and not pausing to think, he reached out and yanked the bedroom door shut.

  He stood, heart hammering and eyes fixed on the door. Misty stood beside him; eyes locked on that door too, waiting for it to open.

  But it didn’t open, and after several minutes, fatigue and the start of a hangover led Mack to the couch.

  He laid on his side, legs awkwardly pulled up, and rested a hand on Misty’s back as she curled on the floor beside him.

  He watched and waited until his eyes turned gritty. When he could hold them open no longer, Mack fell asleep.

  * * *

  The bright morning sun brought its usual wash of clarity. The night’s events drifted surreal at the back of Mack’s mind.

  He didn’t open the bedroom door.

  His back and hips ached from sleeping on the couch, and Misty seemed slow-moving and weary.

  He made coffee and bacon, mechanically forcing food into his mouth.

  Without entering the bedroom, he packed his bag and walked to his truck, holding open the passenger door for Misty to jump inside.

  He had intended to return the satchel to the police, but to do so, he had to open the door.

  Instead, he left it.

  Maybe he’d call and let them know where to find it.

  He bypassed Tina’s house and drove around town, filling his tank with gas, picking up a set of nails, and finally landing outside Henderson Excavating, where Diane worked as a receptionist for her brother.

  He let the engine idle and watched the sun glint off the glass door, not sure why he’d driven there knowing he couldn’t possibly go in.

  A rap on his window startled him, and when he shrank away from the sound, he found Dennis grinning beside his driver’s window. Mack rolled the window down.

  “Mack Gallagher, yours was the last face I was expecting to see today. How ya doing?” Dennis held out his hand, and Mack shook it.

  “I’m all right,” Mack told him, heart still a pace above normal.

  “How’s the gig?” Dennis asked.

  Mack nodded, gazed at the front door of the office and wondered if Diane was watching them.

  “Still paying,” Mack shrugged. “Don’t ask for much more than that.”

  Mack owned a roofing and painting company. They roofed in summer and painted in winter. Business was steady, and Mack liked it well enough, but since his divorce, even the work had changed. He struggled to get through the hours, his foreman’s bad jokes grating on his last nerve. If a homeowner so much as looked at him sideways, he left the job and went to the bar.

  “How about you?” he asked Dennis.

  “Sweet, real sweet. Big job coming up for the city next spring. Winding down now, but Rachel’s overjoyed I’ll be home more.”

  “And Rachel and the kids?”

  “They’re real good. Itchin’ to drive to Florida for Christmas.”

  “And Diane?” Mack asked, trying to sound casual, knowing that Dennis could see right through him.

  “Diane’s good, happy. She’s got a boyfriend and a beagle puppy called Snoopy. Is that why you’re here, Mack? To see Diane?” Dennis’s tone told Mack what he thought of the idea. He liked Mack, but he didn’t like him messing things up for his baby sister.

  “Nah, I don’t know why,” Mack laughed and brushed a hand through his red hair, already showing strands of silver at thirty-four years old. “I was at the cabin and… well, I’m trying not to go home.”

  Dennis studied him.

  “I heard you found yourself a real wildcat. She givin’ ya trouble?”

  Mack grinned and leaned his head back.

  “Diane knows? About Tina?”

  Dennis cocked an eyebrow.

  “In this town? Diane knew about Tina the night you met her. But don’t let that get you down. What do you care if your ex-wife hears about your girlfriend?”

  But of course, they both knew why he cared.

  “I’ll tell her you said hi,” Dennis told him, clapping him on the shoulder.

  Dennis walked toward the door, and Mack shifted into drive. As he started to pull from the parking lot, Diane walked from the office. Dennis held up a hand as if to stop her, but she brushed past him.

  Mack slammed the brakes, and Misty went tumbling to the floor. She gave him an irritated look and jumped back on the seat.

  “Sorry, girl,” he said rubbing her head. “But look who’s coming.”

  Misty’s ears perked up and she let out a stream of excited barks, rearing up and pressing her paws against the window.

  As Diane walked to the driver’s side, Misty fumbled over Mack and stuck her head out.

  Diane’s silky dark hair was pulled back in a red headband and flipped out at the bottom. She wore a red pencil skirt and a black sweater.

  She looked happy, and Mack withered a bit inside.

  “Misty, you’re messing up my makeup,” she scolded, but hugged the dog around the neck.

  Mack leaned from the window and kissed her cheek.

  “How’s Misty’s slobber taste?” she asked him.

  “Like good memories,” he admitted. “You look beautiful, Diane.”

  She smiled, her red lips curving up and her dark eyes sparkling in the sun.

  “You look tired,” she told him honestly.

  He scratched at his jaw, conscious of his unshaved chin and unclean shirt. He wondered if he smelled. He hadn’t taken a shower once at the cabin.

  “I haven’t been piling up too many Z’s lately,” he admitted.

  “Why is that?” she asked, taking a step back but continuing to rub Misty’s head.

  He imagined the figure of the dead man and shuddered.

  Diane frowned.

  “Did something happen, Mack? Is Kate all right?”

  Mack swallowed, the need to unburden his story creeping in and grabbing him by the throat. He’d never been big on talking emotion, but when he did go there, he only went with Diane.

  “Kate’s fine. I’ve been at the cabin for a few days. I found something while I was there… a body. I found a man’s body in the woods.”

  Diane put a hand to her mouth, eyes growing wide.

  “That’s terrible, my God. Did he get lost in the woods?”

  Mack shook his head, remembering the rusted knife poking from the faded shirt.

  “I think he was murdered.”

  She shook her head in disbelief, pushing Misty back as she continued to struggle further through the driver’s window.

  “Who is he?”

  “I don’t know.” Mack grabbed Misty’s collar and pulled her back into the truck. “The police were going out there, but… who knows? It will probably take a while before they identify him.”

  “Mack.” Diane put her hand on the door. “Why are you telling me this?”

  “I just needed to get if off my chest, I guess.”

  “What I mean to say is, why aren’t you home telling your girlfriend, Tina?”

  Mack laughed uncomfortably.

  “I can’t talk to her, Diane. Not like this.” He waved a hand between them. “The truth is, Tina and I were never — I mean, we’re not… we’re not you and me.”

  Diane looked away from him, gazing at the office where a man had stepped out and stood watching them. He was tall, not quite Mack’s height but close, with light hair and tan skin. If Mack didn’t hate him on sight, he might have called him handsome.

  “That’s Dale,” Diane said.

  “Dale’s your boyfriend?”

  Diane nodded.

  “Diane and Dale,” Mack muttered. “Has a nice ring to it.”

  “He works for Stephen. He moved here from Detroit last year. He wants to marry me,” Diane spoke in an offhand, thoughtful way, as if she too was still trying to make sense of Dale.

  “I
s that what you want?” Mack asked, forcing the tremor out of his voice.

  He wanted to reach out and take’s Diane hand, but he clutched the steering wheel instead.

  Diane watched Dale for another moment. He smiled and waved at her.

  Mack’s father would have called it a shit-eating grin, and the man himself a jockstrap.

  “I have to go, Mack. I’m sorry about the man in the woods. I can’t imagine.” She gave Misty a final rub on the ears and kissed the dog on top of her head.

  She gazed at him for a final moment, and Mack clutched the steering wheel to keep from throwing open his door and jumping out.

  She waved and walked away.

  * * *

  It took the better part of an hour to work up the balls to bid Tina farewell.

  When he finally turned onto Harper Road, his ‘you’re better off without me’ speech swirling in his head like a bad tune you can’t shake, he almost drove by.

  But then he saw her empty driveway and slammed on the brakes, whipping his car to the left and barely missing her mailbox. That would have been a cherry on his shit-sundae of a weekend.

  Mack slid his key in the lock and cracked the door, listening.

  He wouldn’t put it past Tina to park down the street and wait in the foyer to confront him while his guard was down.

  The house stood quiet. Tina didn’t like quiet. At any given moment, the radio, the television and some beauty appliance, usually a hair dryer, were all yelling at once. Some days, he sat in his truck to escape the ever-present noise.

  “But not anymore,” he said, more gleefully than he should have. He immediately turned, half-expecting to find her behind him, armed with a nail file.

  She hadn’t left him a note, but he figured she’d picked up an extra shift. Or maybe she had found a hot date a few nights earlier and decided to shack up with her new guy.

  “Doubt it,” he muttered, rushing up the stairs and into her bedroom. He stuffed his things into his bag and thundered down the stairs and out to his truck.

  He drove to the edge of town, where the farmhouse he’d shared with Diane stood forlorn amongst the remnants of a once-garden. It was overgrown now. A tangle of weeds and wildflowers invited the bunnies he and Diane had worked so hard to chase from their meager vegetables.

  Misty barked excitedly and leapt through the window before he’d even stopped the truck.

  Diane hadn’t wanted the house. After the divorce, she moved into an apartment in town.

  Knocking around the empty house had been near-unbearable those first few months, and when Tina appeared, Mack fell over himself to put an end to the long nights listening to the creaks of his house, the snores of his dog, and the yawning emptiness in the bed beside him.

  “And now that’s over too,” he muttered, slamming his truck door and following Misty onto the porch.

  The house felt closed-up and musty. He walked from room to room, opening windows and welcoming the warm breeze. He hadn’t been home in a month, and the groans of the house beneath his feet seemed especially loud, as if she wanted to communicate her bitterness at his absence.

  Misty followed on his heels as he walked back outside and grabbed his bag from the truck, dropping it in the front hallway when he returned.

  He searched the kitchen cupboards for food, settling on stewed tomatoes, jarred years earlier by Diane, and a can of ham.

  He ate and then nodded off on the couch to the Twilight Zone. The episode involved a little boy who terrorized his small town with his mental powers.

  When Mack woke, the television emitted a low static sound, the picture replaced by a black and white haze. He stood and walked to the set, pausing when he heard a sound within the static.

  “Mine,” a deep, gritty voice said, as if the man spoke from within the buzzing television. The sounds merged and made it hard for Mack to distinguish one from the other. The humming grew louder. “Mine,” the voice said.

  Shaky, Mack flipped off the television. Silence fell over the room.

  He looked for Misty and saw her space on the rug, empty. Walking slowly, he left the sitting room, and peered into the kitchen. His half-eaten can of ham sat near the sink. Warmth filled the room from the wood-fire, but Misty wasn’t lounging on the rug before it.

  As he started down the hall toward the front door, he spotted her. Erect, the fur on her back prickly, she stared at the door. Her ears stood at sharp points, and she released a low growl registering in her diaphragm.

  Her legs were tense, as if preparing to attack.

  Mack stopped, pulse jumping, and lifted his gaze to the closed door.

  “What is it, girl? Somebody out there?” He tried to make his voice light, reduce the tremors starting in his brain and reverberating out through his hands and legs.

  The knock on the door startled him so bad that Mack jumped backwards and hit a side table, sending his bag crashing to the ground. The contents spewed out, rolled across the scarred wood floor.

  From the corner of his eye he saw an apple, a pair of socks and, to his horror, the little leather pouch. It lay on its side, the twine holding the strange rocks within it from spilling out.

  Misty barked at the door. The knock had come only once, loud and clear, but nothing followed.

  Mack walked to the door.

  “Who’s there?” he called, hand shaking as he reached for the knob.

  Misty didn’t move, her entire body taut as Mack jerked open the door.

  Night greeted them - cold and sharp and desolate.

  No one stood on the porch.

  Mack didn’t sleep that night, but walked to the kitchen, took out a bottle of Jim Beam and sat at the kitchen table.

  Chapter 14

  September 1965

  Liv

  “I’ve prepared a special room for you, Liv,” Stephen told her.

  She had come to in the back seat of his car. Her arms were bound against her body by thick fabric, and when she gazed down, she realized he’d secured her in a straitjacket.

  The drug had not worn off, and she stumbled and nearly fell as he pulled her from the car.

  The hospital rose against a backdrop of starry sky. Dense woods surrounded the buildings.

  “But first,” he went on. “I have a very special place to show you.”

  They walked into the forest, up a hill of tall grass and down into a shadowy valley of warped trees. A willow that seemed to brush the stars stood in the center of the space.

  It might have been beautiful. The dark silhouette of trees against a starry sky. The sounds of the wild, except in the small basin of forest, there were no sounds.

  The instant they’d moved down the hill, the crickets and owls ceased their cries. As if not a single living thing — bug, mammal or reptile — occupied the damp grove.

  But that wasn’t right either. Because Liv sensed that something alive did indeed reside there. The ground seemed to expand and contract, as if with breath. She felt hungry eyes upon her, and though no one spoke, in her mind she heard whispers. Not the whispers of the spirits she and George had contacted so many times, but cunning, insidious whispers.

  She thought of a man she’d once encountered in Boston. He’d pulled to the curb, near the orphanage, in a sleek maroon Chevy and rolled down his window. On the sidewalk stood Virgil Tort, an eight-year-old with pop-bottle glasses. He’d been at the orphanage for two months because his mother had given birth to her sixth baby and couldn’t handle her slow-learning child.

  “Hey, little boy,” the man in the car had called out. “Give ya a nickel if you help me find a fuel station. And I’ll get ya an ice cream too.”

  Liv had been pushing a double stroller with two infants who’d just fallen asleep, but her head popped up at the man’s voice.

  He was a bad man and if he got Virgil Tort into his car, Liv knew they’d never see the boy again.

  “Push the babies,” she directed one of the older girls from the orphanage.

  Virgil had just stepp
ed off the curb as the man pushed open his passenger door.

  “No!” Liv had shrieked, running to Virgil and yanking him by his arm away from the maroon car and the horrors that awaited him.

  The driver hadn’t said a word. He sped off, his passenger door hanging open, and disappeared around the corner.

  Liv had held a crying Virgil for five minutes, reassuring him that he wasn’t in trouble but that he should never, ever get into a car with a stranger.

  As she stood, chilled in the dark forest, a similar voice seemed to be luring her to come closer, to take a peek at what lay in the dense trees.

  “Stephen,” she started, but a hole had opened in the brush before him, and he pulled her inside.

  She wanted to dig in her heels and buck away from him, but with her arms pinned against her sides, she wouldn’t get far.

  “You feel it, Liv. You do.” He wasn’t asking, and yet he was. There was a note of desperation in his voice.

  His pupils had grown large, washing the color from his eye. The gleam in Stephen’s eyes was a familiar one. She’d witnessed it almost twenty years before, on Halloween night, 1945.

  Yes, she did feel it. An aliveness permeated the damp, dark chamber they’d entered. A hunger.

  The straightjacket squeezed Liv too tight, and she felt hot and short of breath.

  “The eye,” she murmured. “We’re in the eye.”

  Stephen’s eyes widened at her words.

  “Yes,” he hissed. “The eye.”

  He moved across the room to a wooden pedestal that held a huge book. A book of magic, she thought, though not the healing magic George had taught her. This was a book like those George hid beneath the floorboards, a dark book created by dark men.

  “It’s all real. All the things I read about as a boy. Witches and wizards, people who speak to the dead, even those who bring them back, Liv. It’s all here. Those people have passed through this chamber. They sat in that chair. I’ve seen dozens with my own eyes.”

  He spoke now like the boy she’d known. His voice high and excited, as if they’d just left the picture show and he couldn’t wait to gush about the film.

  “Don’t you ever get tired, Stephen? Tired of chasing this elusive force?”